


Obscurity in Clarity

by Angelic_Temptress



Series: Uncertain Clarity [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post Season 6, Sequel, Westerosi Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-03-10 05:24:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13495786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelic_Temptress/pseuds/Angelic_Temptress
Summary: Sequel to Unsure and CertainArya returns Bran home, bringing ill tidings of war to Winterfell's door and complicating the relationships of those who serve either the King in the North or the Dragon Queen of the South.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I obviously don't own them. Please read Unsure and Certain first, or else you may be lost.

**Brienne**

They hadn’t the chance to consummate their Northern marriage, and a selfishness within Brienne now wished she hadn’t been so nervous to give into Jaime’s touch, hadn’t forced him to waste minutes coaxing her out of her britches and onto her bed. Though she’d dreamt of the moment – of his mouth upon her center – she was still surprised his deft tongue had brought her to the edge of a cliff. With her terrible, muscular thighs to either side of his golden head, her husband had begged her to jump, to lose herself, and to forget duty and the dead.

Her pleasure had made them both oblivious to the wolf’s cries, and guilt now weighed heavily upon her broad shoulders for yet another reason. Brienne hadn’t been quick to respond to her lady’s needs, too distracted by Jaime’s expert mouth.

Since Lady Arya and Lord Brandon’s return, King Jon and Lady Sansa had holed themselves within their brother’s room with no invitation to their advisors or Lord Tyrion.

Only the wolves were allowed to accompany them.

She, Jaime, Ser Davos, Tyrion, and Tormund sat beside the hearth in the Great Hall while Podrick poured mead. With glazed eyes rimmed with red, Tyrion refused the drink, engrossed in continuously emptying and refilling his cup with the wine he’d had all night.

“How did a crippled boy manage to survive alone for so long?” Jamie sat beside his brother, his hair mussed and his tunic half-laced. If he looked unkempt, Brienne could only imagine the fright she resembled.

“The boy claims he has the sight,” Tyrion muttered. “He said he _saw_ Viserion’s death and the collapse of the Wall.” His deep glower took hold of his entire face, the evening’s mirth gone. With a few gulps, his cup was empty again. “Podrick, if you would, I am in need of pen and parchment. I must send a letter to the Queen.”

“And what will you write her, my lord?” Ser Davos was quick to inquire. Of those in the room, he appeared the least disheveled, though sleep still touched his kind eyes.

The dwarf’s mouth twisted and his brow creased as he answered, “To tell her one of her children is dead.”

“But how can we be sure what Bran claims has happened?” Jaime asked no one in particular.

Tyrion narrowed his eyes. “Your King had implored I send for her. Seems we will soon be under attack, and he hopes the raven will reach the capital before the dead reach us.” 

Podrick looked to Brienne for permission, and she gave him a faint nod before he ran off. Unable to keep still, she rose and walked to the fireplace to lean against it. Tormund moved to join her.

“Is the boy really a brother?” he whispered so no one would hear and drank his mead, the honeyed drink sticking to the red tresses above his mouth.

Brienne only sighed. “I do not know, but the girl is Arya Stark. I’d seen her before.”

Tormund hawked as if it were too sweet for his liking. “And the Lannister? Stolen you, has he?” 

Wildings kept odd and uncivilized bedding customs, she knew, but Brienne wasn’t comfortable having this conversation with anyone, let alone Tormund Giantsbane. “Is it any of your concern?”

His blue eyes moved to meet her own, and she thought she read a hint of pain in the stare. “When a lass allows herself to be stolen, it’s only right that she tell her admirers.”

She scoffed, “How can a woman _allow_ herself to be stolen? Does that not negate the theft?”  

“Har! We’re true northerners, not savages, woman.”

Brienne turned slightly to see Jaime watching them closely. “Then yes. He’d stolen me long ago, I think.”

With a shrug, he pledged, “I will try to keep the pretty knight from dying.”

Her breath caught in her throat, surprised at Tormund’s regard, and for the third time that night, Brienne felt guilt tug at her. “Thank you, friend.” 

Tormund swallowed more of his mead. “This sweet shit does nothing for the tongue.” 

++

**Sansa**

Jon had insisted he bathe Bran himself, hoping the warm water would bring color back to his icy cheeks. Now less blue than before, her little brother lay in his childhood bed, wrapped in layers of furs but with a shiver still upon his lips.

After tucking the covers and trapping whatever heat she could, Sansa sat in the chair Old Nan used to rock in. Arya fretted in a corner with the grey direwolf at her side, and Jon stood at the foot of the bed with hands clasped behind his back, eerily resembling their dead father. Ghost had moved to lie against the door.

“Bran.” Jon spoke softly, and Sansa felt she had to strain to hear him. “If you need to rest before we talk, it’s all right. The hour is late, and we all could use some sleep.”

“You said _he_ was coming.” Arya stepped from her position on the wall, her hand reaching for the headboard. She gripped it so hard, Sansa thought she might bend the wood had she the strength.

“The Night King,” Jon stated, as if it answered all unasked questions.

“We’ll call our bannermen,” Sansa assured. “We’ll be ready.”

They were all frightened, and perhaps knowing it made them even more afraid. The wind whistled outside the castle as the snowfall finally diminished. Nymeria whined.

“I know of your mother, Jon.”

Though Jon did not move, his brown eyes could not conceal his trepidation. He glanced to Sansa for a moment and then to the floor as he waited. 

“I combed through the past. I could see anything… I saw your birth.”

“You saw father?” Arya queried. “He was with her? With Jon’s mother?”

When Sansa was a stupid girl, she had been ashamed of her bastard brother and of her father’s infidelity. She’d never understood why he of all people would intentionally hurt their mother. She knew now that war forced all sorts of strange bedfellows.

Bran nodded. “He had been with Aunt Lyanna, yes.”

“What?” Arya spoke for all of them, unsure of what they’d just heard.

Sansa’s mouth hung agape as she stood from the rocking chair. “Jon is Lyanna’s son?” She stepped to him, gripping his shoulder. “By the gods…”

“Father lied? Why would he lie?”

“Everyone lied, Arya. You should know that.” Sansa placed a hand beneath Jon’s scratchy jawline and forced his head to turn, to face her. He had always looked the most like father and Uncle Benjen – his dark eyes and wild hair the most northern of them all. “Do you know what this means?” 

Jon pulled away from her, swatting her hand from his face. “That what little father had told me were fabrications? That I still don’t know what I am? That it doesn’t matter?”

She shook her head. “No. This matters. You’re Rhaegar Targaryen’s son.”

“I’m still a bastard born of rape.”

“No.” Bran groaned as he sat up. “Aunt Lyanna had willingly run away to Dorne. They had wed.”

Sansa gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth. “You’re the rightful King.”

Arya sat on the bed, her grey eyes on the floor. “Father lied to protect you. He hid you because King Robert would have…” She inhaled loudly. “What do we do?”

“Nothing,” Jon insisted, his voice sharp. “We have no proof. This doesn’t leave the room.”

“Tyrion would know,” Sansa blurted, knowing the truth of her words. But her certainty waned when Arya slammed her fist onto the featherbed.

“And you would tell the Imp?”

“Do not call him that,” she demanded, her voice cracking. “You don’t know him.”

“Is it even possible that you’re still as foolish as I remember? He’s a Lannister, is he not? We cannot trust anyone who is not a Stark. Father had said.” Arya sprang from the bed to step between Sansa and their cousin. “Your dwarf serves the Dragon, and Jon is all that stands in her way of the throne. Can you swear that she wouldn’t burn us all if it meant her claim was unopposed?”   

Sansa could feel tears gathering behind her eyes as she looked to Jon. She recalled the rumors, the Targaryen’s anger for Ser Jaime, and the frigid touch of her shaking husband. “I cannot.”

“Enough, sisters. We’ll speak of this on the morrow.” Jon motioned to the door and forced a smile. “Bran, I’ll be back to look in on you. Ghost, up. “

As the direwolf reluctantly stood, Sansa felt her insides twist into knots. 

++


	2. Chapter 2

**Jaime**

His brother drained another cup of its wine before he lifted the quill and rolled it between his fingers, staring at the blank parchment. It was the second attempt he’d made.

“Perhaps you should write the note after you’ve slept a bit,” Jamie suggested. “An hour or two will not make a difference.”

Tyrion glared at Jaime with bloodshot eyes, his mouth bent into what seemed a permanent frown. “If what Bran says is true, we need her. Viserion hadn’t been gone for more than an evening. What sort of power does this Night King have if he can effortlessly kill a dragon?”

“As we told you, he has the power to control the dead, man or beast,” Tormund confirmed from his place beside Brienne and the fire.

Jaime looked to his contemplative wife, who stood with arms crossed atop her chest. Her disheveled hair had taken its natural curl, as if she had fought a melee earlier that evening. Though Brienne insisted on wearing her short hair slicked back, Jaime thought he preferred it this way – wild and defiant, like her. He knew he had to focus on the calamity at hand, but he couldn’t help reminiscing over her throaty moans and ragged breaths.

Bran Stark had robbed Jaime of his wedding night, and he supposed that was almost fair.

“I’ve seen too much to disregard the boy’s warnings,” Ser Davos stated plainly.

Brienne made sure to elaborate before he could. “A shadow with a face belonging to Stannis Baratheon is a fine example,” she remarked, her mouth tense and eyes sharp.

“Yes. It is.” Davos lowered his gaze to his shortened fingers. It seemed what their king had said upon Jaime’s arrival held weight. No man at Winterfell was free of sin.

“We must trust Bran.” Jon Snow joined them in the Great Hall with sisters at either side, and before Jaime could even think to glance at her, Arya’s large, grey eyes had already settled upon him, throwing daggers. “I plan to call my bannermen to Winterfell. I’d very much like Daenerys Targaryen to be here when they arrive.”

Tyrion finished his scribble and handed Podrick the rolled paper. “I am confident she will be.”

The boy swiftly left the room as Arya sauntered to the table, claiming a chair across from the brothers. After popping a dried fig into her mouth, she snatched Tyrion’s cup, filled it with wine, and drank. Just as he began to protest, Sansa gripped his shoulder.

“Let us try to get some rest, husband. Otherwise, we will be of no use to anyone.” The Lady of Winterfell threw a knowing glance at Brienne as Tyrion stumbled from his seat. With a hand to steady his balance, she led her husband to their chambers.

King Jon whistled at Ghost after confirming his brother was fast asleep and suggesting they follow suit. Davos and Tormund heeded his words, leaving Jaime and Brienne with the Stark daughter most had thought long dead.

“It is good to see you, Lady Brienne,” the girl stated with the slimmest trace of warmth in her voice.

Brienne smiled as she took the seat Tyrion had last occupied. “I am very glad to see you home, my lady.”

Arya’s wry grin tensed as she turned to look at Jaime. “And ser, you appear more refreshed than last I saw you drinking wine at the Twins.”

Instinctually, his head responded with a small shake at her claim. He hadn’t laid eyes on the skinny girl since King’s Landing nearly a decade ago, but before he could correct her, Jaime recalled the late Walder Frey. The hair on the back of his neck stood. “Much has happened since then,” he stated instead.

The Stark nodded and drank from Tyrion’s cup again. Red wine stained her chapped lips, and they twisted back into her shrewd smile. He pictured Arya crouched somewhere in the Red Keep during the siege, smirking with enthusiastic eyes as his sister clawed at her pale throat.

Brienne’s knee brushed against his own, rousing Jaime from his morbid thought.

“You swore to protect both my mother’s daughters, did you not?” Once she secured a nod from Brienne, Arya looked to Jaime again. “And you? You also pledged your sword.”

“To your sister, yes.”

A small chuckle, and she bit her lower lip. “Lannisters have always been very taken with my sister.” It was then he noticed the unfamiliar direwolf, larger and seemingly more ferocious than Jon’s. The animal bristled at him as Arya stood. “Lady Brienne, I would like to spar tomorrow.”

“I can arrange an instructor– ”

“I meant with you.” With the girl’s next sentence, her eyes finally softened. “After all, you beat the Hound.”

+++

**Tyrion**

“I am not drunk.”

Sansa poured a cup of water and shoved it into his hand, unimpressed with his declaration. “Drink.”

Tyrion followed his wife’s demand, and she began to unbutton his vest and unlace his tunic. “Lady Sansa, are you seducing me?”

With a roll of her eyes, she huffed. “I’m trying to put you to bed.”

“One of the many grand ideas you’ve had tonight, my dear.” Her thumb brushed his collarbone, and it sent a shiver through his body. “You are the sweetest woman I’ve ever had the honor of tasting.”

Her eyebrow arched. “And that is meant to be a compliment?”

Tyrion swished the water in his mouth as he pondered his words, realizing they had sounded much more romantic in his head. He swallowed and admitted, “You are right. I can do better than that.”

“I am in no need of your drunken flatteries. I will, however, be in need of your mind in the morning.”

“You should have no interest in my mind, for it is only filled with lustful thoughts of you.” Mimicking her sister’s speed, his wife seized his cup to refill it with the tasteless liquid. It was then he noticed the clench in her jaw. “Something is worrying you.”

“Bran arrived the temperature of a corpse. I should think it would worry me.”

Tyrion pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “It’s something else. Possibly Arya – she didn’t seem thrilled with Lannisters staying in her home.”

Sansa ignored his theorizing. “Remove your britches and get into bed.”

“As my lady commands.” Once undressed, he crawled atop his wife’s featherbed. “I assume you are also in need of sleep.”

Sansa placed the cup atop the end table and then unfastened the third button at her neck, a task she’d begun at the table while they had celebrated his brother’s marriage only hours ago, though the hours now felt more like days.

Daenerys had ordered that he travel to Winterfell atop one of her children, and his steed was now dead because of it. He had failed his Queen, and perhaps, consequently, failed his wife. His muddled mind moved beyond the tantalizing image of a flushed Sansa and to the notion of blue porcelain skin. He could picture fire red hair on the snow, frozen purple lips, and dead eyes staring at the sky. The idea made him sick, and he suddenly wanted more wine. He hadn’t even noticed that she’d slipped into bed beside him.

“What else troubles you, Tyrion?”

A simple statement was all he could share, the only words his tongue would form. “I don’t want you to die.” He closed his eyes and once again could imagine her frigid gaze, but a hand upon his cheek drove his focus to the brave, clever woman beside him, very much alive and with eyes aglow with candlelight.

“I’ve made it this far, and I have no intention of giving up my home or my life.” She moved her fingers into his hair. “I know you are grieving, but you mustn’t drink so much.”

“I think best with wine.” His profane stare moved from her eyes, to her jawline, and along her flawless neck, yearning for a peak of the skin beneath her underdress. His wife had first offered herself to him in the cover of darkness and again while wearing her shift in his bath. “You’re keeping many secrets from me.”

Her hand retreated from his curls, and he seized it with his own before she could pull away entirely. Tyrion could almost see his wife’s icy walls returning. “I had first thought it was because of my… shortcomings you were concealing yourself.”

Her gaze shifted to something he could not read. “I will not discuss this while you are seeing double.”

“You have nothing to be ashamed of, Sansa.”

“No.” She gritted her teeth. “I do not require validation, my lord. Not from any man. Not even you.”

“I did not – that is not what I meant. Of course you don’t,” he stuttered. “What I intended to say is that I care deeply for you, Sansa. You can trust me with anything.”

She ripped her hand from his. “So you keep saying.”

“Because it’s true.” His wife had known too many liars in her twenty years and needed transparency, just as he did, even if only within the confines of their marriage bed.

After a moment, Sansa hungrily captured his lips with her own. “I don’t want to talk,” she mumbled against his mouth, and though Tyrion recognized the flavors of both desperation and distraction, his soupy mind couldn’t care, for his wife had kissed him, and it was all he could concentrate on.

“Goodnight, Tyrion.” She laid her head upon her pillow and closed her blue eyes.

+++


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> J/B shippers: It's going to get a little sexy.

**Brienne**

Jaime put more kindling into the fire as she tugged the furs atop her bed to her chin.

 _Their_ bed, Brienne corrected. She assumed their shared vow now applied to their belongings as well: food, armor, sheets, steel...

He turned to face her with a grin tickling his handsome mouth and unfastened his golden hand from his forearm. It didn’t take him long, and it almost looked easy. Jaime blew out the candle she’d placed upon the desk after he untucked his tunic, allowing her a glimpse of his taut abdomen.

“May I?” Jaime inquired though he didn’t wait for a reply before joining their bed, lying so they would look at one another.

In near darkness, Brienne could still distinguish the contours of his face, and despite her fatigue, she yearned to trace each of his lines – the faded scars, the newest wrinkles, and the shape of every muscle. He shifted awkwardly, trying to lie comfortably, resting his stump between them.

“You didn’t tell me you’d beaten the Hound.”

“It didn’t come up.”

“No one simply walks away from a Clegane. Did you kill him?”

“He fell off a cliff.”

Jaime exaggerated a wince. “Near the Eerie? There had been rumors.”

She sighed, “You can thank Podrick for that, though I am surprised it reached your ears.” Brienne adjusted her own position, resting her hand beside where Jaime’s would have been. “The Hound had been traveling with Arya, and when he caught sight of Oathkeeper at my hip…”

“He took you for a Lannister in blue steel.” Jaime considered his words before adding, “Quite a match it must have been.”

Brienne timidly reached for him, taking his wrist to carefully outline the puckered scar tissue there.

“It’s been years, and still the scars are sensitive. Some days, I can still sense the weight and feel of a blade, as if it were invisible. I’d heard of phantom limbs from many a man who had lost a leg or arm in battle but I could’ve never imagined.” His left hand came to rest upon her bare thigh, his thumb’s slow traces almost setting her skin aflame.

Green eyes glanced to her throat, and he moistened his lips, a small movement Brienne found incredibly captivating but unsure of how to interpret. If she kissed him then, would Jaime think her too brazen? His breathing had quickened to match the pace of her own, and when his hand gripped her thigh and hooked her leg over his hip, all notions of modesty were forgotten. Jaime pulled her against him, bringing her head to lie upon his forearm, and pressed his hardness against her.

“Your husband has had trouble concentrating on anything but those honeyed sounds you made earlier this evening.” he murmured and dipped his head to the marks at her neck. He kissed her there before running his tongue over its roughness and to the pulse at her throat. “Are you in need of me, lady wife?”

Her breath hitched when he squeezed her arse and kissed her jawline, lightly nipping her with his teeth. Instinctually, Brienne rolled her hips against his thigh, and a kind of energy flowed through her.

Jaime laughed softly and proudly stated, “My lady’s bawdiness seems to verify as much.” His mouth hovered atop hers, taunting her. “But I’m afraid I am a ravenous man in need of your voice.” Devious fingers glided over her hip and slipped between their bodies, to where Brienne wanted him most. She quivered with little more than a soft touch. “Very damp indeed, dearest. Are you sure you are not in need of my aid?”

Brienne could barely focus. “Words are wind, ser.” She rolled her hips against his hand, savoring the desire on his face. “But I suppose I require what is mine by right.”

“Ah, my wife demands,” Jaime said with his voice deep in his throat, “so I shall deliver.”

+++

**Sansa**

Jon didn’t look up when she stepped into his chambers, instead ignoring her to skim one of the countless papers scattered upon his desk and sign those that needed his mark.

“Good morning, coz.”

He closed his eyes with frustration, clutching the quill in his fist. “Sansa, why must you vex me?”

“Because you do not listen unless you are vexed.” She rustled her skirts as she walked and made sure to loudly sit upon the chair across from him. “We must speak of what we’ve learned.” A frown signaled Sansa to continue. “You do not wish to trust Tyrion with the matter, which I understand, but we should consult Ser Davos.”

He shook his head. “Besides Bran’s word, there is no proof of the marriage. I’m still no one.”

“You’re the King in the North.”

“And the North is to be overrun with the dead. We need to worry about our people.”

“Westeros encompasses all your people.”

“Sansa. Enough.” Jon stood abruptly, and she flinched. But as quickly as his anger emerged, regret replaced it.

She had seen an ample amount of pity for one day, and instead of tolerating his, Sansa hopped to her feet as well. “What do you think I’ve been doing all morning? I’ve been running this castle, just as I’ve done since we’d won it back. Your soldiers have leathered armor because of me. There is food because of me. Winterfell is prepared because I knew war would find us.”

“I know.”

“Yet you do not care enough to heed my concern or advice.”

Jon set the quill down and stepped around his desk. “That passion, you acquired from your mother.”

She cringed. “Mother was never fair to you.”

“Father had lied to her just as he had lied to us all.” Her brother’s – _her cousin’s_ – shoulders slumped. “You believe Bran?”

“I know you do. If he were what he says he is, would that be the strangest happening of your life? What you claim occurred at Castle Black…” Sansa stopped speaking of it, instead envisioning grimy men in black, taking turns sliding their blades into Jon. The wet sound of steel slicing flesh and the copper smell of blood filled her ears and her nostrils. “You’d witnessed, experienced so much. How can I dispel Bran?” Her eyes moved to her worn shoes. “Father had lied the day of his execution, had admitted to being a traitor to protect me. He would have done the same for you. The puzzle pieces fit.”

“Possibly. But the Wall has fallen. The Night King comes, and I cannot think of anything else until after we defeat him.” Jon placed a finger beneath her chin, so she would look at him. “Winterfell is yours, just as it has always been. If we survive the dead, I promise we will speak of this to Davos, to Tyrion, and to whomever you’d like.”

She shrugged and muttered, “You deserve your place in the world, Jon.” He pulled her into a tight embrace, and she allowed herself to relax for only an instant before stepping back. “With all that happened, I forgot to inform you. Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne were wed before the weirwood. Tyrion and I bore witness.”

Astonished, Jon laughed. “Poor Tormund.”

Sansa thought his chuckle catching. “Let us take a walk to the yard. Arya is with Brienne.”

++


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, Arya and Brienne's sparring session is heavily borrowed from this past season.

**Jaime**

“Holy fuck.”

Jaime watched the she-wolf slide on her knees, beneath Brienne’s slash, her back bending as the sword whistled just above her face. Arya quickly recovered her footing and attempted to strike just above the knee with her skinny blade in left hand, only to meet Brienne’s parry.

The wench had always been faster than she looked.

“Who fights like that?” Tormund muttered aloud.

“No one in the West.” He lifted his gaze to see the princess and the king standing above the training yard. With gloved hands clutching the railing, Jon had his wide, brown eyes set on the match, but his sister only watched him – she’d already known of Arya’s skills.

Brienne, somewhat overwhelmed with the girl’s ability, kicked her square in the chest and onto her back. The yard collectively stopped shuffling, a silence infiltrating the day’s routine. Though his wife seemed horrified at her body’s reflex, the Stark girl cackled and, with a rising handspring, vaulted back onto her feet.

Now both women wore smiles that reached ear to ear.

King Jon clapped. “Sister, you are full of surprises.” He smirked, an unnatural sight. “And Lady Brienne, your talents always impress. I think it best you add another student to your morning class.”

“It would be my pleasure, Your Grace.” Brienne handed Podrick her tourney sword and set her hands on her hips. “I may need to learn a thing or two from you, Arya. Who taught you to fight like that?”

Arya replied almost playfully as she slipped her thin sword back into her scabbard. “No one.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” The Stark girl thanked her tutor and walked off.

As his wife strolled to join them, Jaime answered her question. “The style is Braavosi.”

Brienne narrowed her beautiful eyes. “I’ve fought Braavosi men before.”

“Thank the gods none as well trained as she.”

“She is quick and scrawny and fights with the wrong arm,” Tormund snorted. “Mayhaps you could learn from her, Lannister.” The wildling walked away, and Jaime’s wife peered at him with interest.

“Huh.” What he thought to be a clever grin touched her lips. “Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps Arya could assist you in your development.”

Practice with the murderess that had poisoned his sister? He felt his throat tighten at the thought. “No,” he forced. “I will not.”

“Fine.” Brienne turned to leave him, without retort.

Jaime moved quickly to keep with her stride. “The girl hates me. Probably wants me dead.”

“And you hate the girl. I hated all of Stannis’ men, and yet I serve alongside the one who was once his hand.” Brienne called to Podrick as she started up the stairs toward their room. “If you’d like to stay alive long enough to see the spring, I suggest you get over both your anger and your pride and realize we all must make odious choices in order to survive.” She barreled into their bedroom, possibly more furious than he’d ever seen her. Jaime hadn’t witnessed that sort of quiet rage since their trot through the Riverlands.

His cock noticed as well.

“M’lady.” Podrick started through the door, but Jaime threw his arm up to block his path. “Boy, do go see to Tyrion. I don’t believe he’s awoken from his stupor.”

“Ser –”

“Do not worry. I will assist Lady Brienne with her armor.”

Brienne tilted her head, seemingly unsure of his intentions, and he allowed his gaze to linger upon her long limbs in hopes she’d understand. “Thank you, Pod. You may go.” The boy scurried away as she started on the plate over her left shoulder.

“You’re cross with me,” Jaime acknowledged and closed the door. “I’d forgotten how much I enjoy your irritation.”

“It’s curious, really. I’d never forgotten how much you irritated me.”

He gave a mocking bow. “It’s a gift.” Jaime then eyed his stoic wife, snickering. “I had assumed you would want to teach your husband a serious lesson.”

She removed another plate. “Oh, had you?”

“I had also thought I could give you a few lessons in return.”

“You’re insufferable.” Another plate was detached and placed upon their desk.

“But you would fuck me all the same.” When her jaw faintly fell, he raised both eyebrows. “Do you mean to accuse me of dishonesty, lady wife? Can you claim your delicious cunt does not ache for my cock?” Brienne blushed, the blotchiness engulfing her pale skin, and his cock stirred again, his pants suddenly uncomfortable.

His half-armored wife stepped forward and shoved him against the heavy door, nearly knocking the breath from his lungs. “Bar the door and help me with this maddening steel, you awful man.”

+++

**Tyrion**

“Lord Tyrion?”

His name echoed in his head, an agonizing pain pulsating at his temples. “Not so loud, I beg you.” Tyrion paused before using all his strength to sit upright. The room swayed slightly as he did.

Podrick Payne offered a sympathetic smile and a chalice of water, which Tyrion reluctantly took.

“Not that I am ungrateful for you, but why am I waking to your face instead of that belonging to my wife?”

“Because it is nearly midday, m’lord, and Lady Sansa has been busy preparing for the arrival of both your queen and her bannermen.”

Tyrion groaned, which only strengthened his headache. “She is livid, I gather.”

Pod shrugged. “I do not know, m’lord. I had been sent by your brother.”

At the very least, he knew Jaime still cared enough for him. Tyrion clucked his tongue, a mistake, and rolled out of bed and onto his unsteady legs. “There should be wine atop the table.”

“It appears Lady Sansa had removed the wine from her chamber, but I had thought to bring you a bit of ale to settle your stomach.” Podrick handed him a mug, which he was much more accepting of.

“You’re a good lad, Pod.”

After the cup of ale and a fresh change of clothes, Tyrion ventured from his wife’s chambers, still groggy and distressed, in search of her. He owed her an explanation, though he did not remember much of last night’s conversation. All he could recall was his ghastly premonition, and as he once again imagined her lifelessness, he recognized bile at the back of this throat.

Sansa and the king rounded the corner, and the appalled expression upon her face informed Tyrion that he must have looked worse than he felt. “Morning, lady wife.”

“Afternoon,” his brother by law corrected. Jon offered an empathetic frown as he stepped by, leaving Sansa behind.

“Yes. Afternoon.” Tyrion balled his hands into fists at his sides. “Seems I slept through the first meal of the day.” He’d unchained dragons with less fear than he possessed now and hadn’t felt this helpless in her presence since he’d learned of her family’s murder. The memory rolled his stomach. “I feel I owe you an apology.”

“I understand your woe, my lord. You forget I lost my direwolf to an execution.”

“I did not know that.”

“Your sister’s doing,” she sighed.

“The wicked bitch.”

Sansa folded her hands. “I have much to do, my lord.”

This time, Tyrion sighed. “Don’t recoil from me, please.”

“I haven’t yet, but I cannot think upon the matter now.” She brushed past him, her skirt smacking his shoulder. He followed.

“What can I do?”

“Steer clear of me while I work.”

Tyrion tried to keep up, but his short legs would not permit him. “Please, let me apologize.”

His wife stopped mid-stride and whipped around to face him, seeming more Tully than Stark. “Yes. This is twice now you were in your cups when I needed you most. Apparently your travels to Essos did nothing for your character.” It felt as if Tyrion had been slapped across the face. He’d been fool enough not to presume she harbored outstanding grievances.

A maid hurried by and although this was not the Red Keep of his youth, Tyrion knew their voices surely carried down the hall.

“Can we speak privately?”

Sansa pondered his request before opening the door to her bedroom. Once crossing the threshold, she motioned him inside and shut the door as soon as she could. His wife then kneeled before him, to match his height. She smelled fresh of snow, and all Tyrion craved was to kiss the grimace from her face.

“What required saying in privacy, my lord?”

“I had too much wine,” he admitted simply.

Unimpressed, she responded. “I had gathered as much. So had all of Winterfell.”

“But you have my apologizes, lady wife. You are not the first to disapprove of my ability to drink to excess, but you are one of the few whose opinion I care for.” Tyrion wet his lips nervously. “What did you mean? Of this being twice now?”

His query seemed to aggravate her. “Though you had shown me kindness, I would have appreciated a more conscious companion on our first wedding night.” Sansa sat back upon her calves, somber. “And last night…” She turned her eyes from him and to the hearth, swallowing what must have been a lump in her throat.

“What is it, Sansa?” Tyrion had yet to fully know his wife, but he still could detect the minor misgivings in her shoulders, which sank only slightly. Her uncertainty was scarcely visible to the inexpert eye.

“All will be well.” It seemed a secret sat stubbornly upon the tip of her tongue, something Sansa either was not ready to or planned never to share. “Your queen will bring her dragons. Her Dothraki and Unsullied will be sure to follow. Together, we will keep the dead at bay.”

He wanted to press but resisted his urge. “I am just as anxious as you are.” Her red hair hung loosely today, allowing Tyrion to tuck a smooth strand behind her ear. “A wise man once said – ”

“I don’t care,” she professed, forcing his mouth shut. “I have no need for recited words from old, dead men and no patience for any quote of yours that you will try to pass as either old or wise.” Sansa rolled forward onto her knees and pressed her mouth to his.

Again diversion tainted the kiss, and again he couldn’t think to speculate why because she so easily opened for his tongue. His wife was still sweet, and her saccharine mouth remained a sure way to keep his mind from thoughts of unknown horrors, death, and ice. His sister had once called Tyrion a lecherous little beast, and perhaps she’d spoken true for he believed he could live in this moment for days, maybe weeks, if allowed.

Before pulling away, she lingered on his lower lip, faintly sucking at it. A flush had crept onto her cheeks, and her swollen lips slightly parted as she caught her breath. Sansa Stark may have wanted him almost as much as he longed for her. The suggestion almost made him smile triumphantly.

“You must keep your wits about you, Tyrion. I do not yet know the terrain we travel.” She took one of his hands into her own, squeezing it. “It’s all I ask.” Her eyes were clear, blue and unwavering.

“Of course. My council is yours. I am yours.” His words were genuine.

After Tyrion had left Sansa to her duties, he wandered Winterfell in search of whatever could be considered a council room and stumbled upon the maester shuffling from the doorway of small study in an adjacent hallway. The bearded fellow acknowledged him with a curt nod.

It was a place to begin.

Davos Seaworth sat inside at a desk, reading. His smile was much more pleasant than that belonging to the maester. “Lord Tyrion,” the Onion Knight greeted. “Seems the Stark bannermen have already begun to accept the call. I happen to look forward to your meeting Lyanna Mormont.”

“Ah. I knew the late Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and his son, though my opinion differs depending on which we speak of.” Tyrion motioned to the vacant seat before him, and Davos nodded. “This Lady Lyanna is as stubborn as they were, I assume.”

Ser Davos only nodded. “She is a fierce girl of nine with the remarkable ability of making men cower in shame. You’ll like her.”

Tyrion laughed, despite himself. “It just so happens, young women who obliterate the will of men are my preference.”

+++


	5. Chapter 5

**Jaime**

Neither the disapproving looks from Stark soldiers or the bland potage Jaime swallowed could hinder his mood. He was now a happily married man, and a permanent flutter had found his stomach, which only strengthened whenever Brienne glanced his way. The sensation was one he hadn’t enjoyed since he was a child of the Rock, running through its halls and sneaking kisses in passageways. Yet this was different – unfamiliar and reciprocated. 

Winter had come, and the world might very well end. Yet here he grinned like a fool, almost glad for it all. 

Very much like armor, Brienne wore the look of ravished consort well, and if it were at all possible, a newfound confidence had straightened her spine and added sparkle to her bright eyes. She caught Jaime staring. “I can tell where your thoughts wander,” his wife claimed knowingly. 

“Can you, sweetling?” Envisioning what she imagined only brought the lewdest notions to mind. “And yet you do not blush? I had heard brides blush.” 

Not ungracefully, she spooned her chowder and brought it to her plump lips. “Am I expected to blush, ser?” Brienne shrugged. “I’ve never been one to do what was expected of me.” She swallowed, her mouth now demanding all his attention. 

Her smile had Jaime so fascinated, he almost missed Jon Snow as he entered the Great Hall, wearing his heavy furs and quickly approaching their table. It was obvious he’d been in search for them. 

“Your Grace.” Brienne began to stand though Jaime didn’t move. 

“Lady Brienne. Ser Jaime. Please, remain seated. Sansa had told me of your marriage, and I had wanted to congratulate you both.” Jon offered another of his small, uncommon grins. “I wish you good fortune and hope we all can follow your brave example.” Snow meant what he said. Jaime believed he could lie no better than Brienne. 

“Thank you, King Jon, but what is another vow among sworn swords?” He felt Brienne’s glare before she threw it. 

“Yes.” The boy’s gaze settled uncomfortably upon him. “I dislike disrupting your midday meal, but I would be pleased if you’d walk with me, Ser Jaime.” He turned to Brienne. “If you wouldn’t mind my stealing your husband for the better part of an hour, my lady?” 

“Of course not. We are done.”

Although he had recited no oath to him, Jaime finished his ale and rose from the bench to do as requested. The boy was smarter than he looked if he sought Jaime’s expertise, so he followed the King in the North. When they were far enough away from the dining hall, he spoke. “I assume you seek to discuss strategy.” 

“Yes, of a sort.” The king led him outside the Keep and to a dark staircase, its’ entrance marked and protected by wolves of stone. “Do be careful. The steps can be slick.” As they quietly descended, the air cooled and prickled his skin. Jon lit a torch at the bottom of the stairway and motioned Jaime to follow. 

Statues stood to either side of a dirt walkway, and Jaime realized Jon had led him to the crypt where the so-called Kings of Winter and their descendants slept. Each grave possessed an effigy of its occupant, and every pair of eyes seemed to follow Jaime has he passed. 

He liked it not. 

Jon Snow placed his torch in a cradle on the wall when they stopped before the burial place of Eddard Stark. The sculptor hadn’t known his face, it was clear, for the statue lacked his pomposity. Jaime glanced at the short king, whose eyes were not set upon the figure of his father but rather the woman beside him. He could only assume Lyanna Stark stared back, her hand extended, as if waiting for a favor. 

Perhaps she waited for a crown of winter roses. 

Beside dead Ned’s bastard son and upon hallowed ground, here Jaime stood waiting for war. He thought it sordidly comical. “Your siblings may object to my presence within this place, King Jon,” he advised, his own furs suddenly bothersome. “I am certain your father would have been irritated.” 

“I bring you here to speak freely. I am to meet the Dragon Queen in a few days’ time.” He turned, the flicker of the torch catching his face in a strange way. “Tell me of her. Tell me of her brother, Rhaegar. You’re one of few who remember him.” His eyes darkened with something Jaime recognized, something not unlike trepidation or grandeur. 

“She carries her family’s words over her heart,” he said. “Daenerys Stormborn is pure wrath, a conqueror who could only ripen from survival to slaughter.” 

“You don’t trust her.” 

Jaime shifted, his back now to the stone Ned. “I think my brother is the only reason she hasn’t flown north and demanded you bend the knee, and I know I owe my life to our siblings and to Brienne. I would have burned otherwise.” His missing hand twitched. “But she listens to Tyrion and her advisors. Aerys did not. He did as he pleased, killed as he pleased, and raped as he pleased.”

King Snow looked to the carved woman again, her hand now seemingly reaching for him. “And Rheagar was like his father? _Taking_ as he pleased?” 

“Robert won the war, so Robert spun the tales.” Jaime closed his eyes a moment. In this quiet place, he could almost feel the prince’s hand upon his shoulder, assuring him that all would change. “Rhaegar was not his father, but Rhaegar kept me at a distance. He did not let me know him.”

The day he’d ridden to his doom, Rhaegar’s silver hair had caught the wind, and the seven rubies on his black breastplate had glittered in the sun like a target for Robert’s hammer. Even now, Jaime could still taste his teenage anger upon his tongue. Love had not smothered the rebellion, and he assumed the Trident had been iridescent with ruby blood for days after. 

Before he could be dismissed, Jaime spoke again. “The girl believes she has purpose, much like her brother had. Daenerys is convinced she’s what’s best for Westeros, and perhaps you can use that arrogance to your advantage.” 

Surprise wandered across the boy’s face, and he nodded as if he could understand all Jaime recalled. “I thank you for your counsel, Ser Jaime.” Jon Snow then pulled a candle from somewhere beneath his cloak. “If you would be so kind, I’d like to spend some time with my family.” 

He offered a half-bow before hurriedly leaving the king to himself and the crypts. Too many judges had found Jaime here. 

+++

**Brienne**

_Forever your daughter,_

_Brienne_

Lord Selwyn deserved news of the Wall and of his heir, who a kingdom away from the Sapphire Isle had married beneath the crimson leaves of a weirwood. And if traditions meant anything during war, crimson should now be her cloak. 

Would her father think her marriage absurd? He’d been forced to stop pressing after the three broken bones of her third broken betrothal, and though the memory brought a smile to her face for a moment, she knew how proud her father was. 

She rolled the parchment and placed it in Podrick’s open palm with what she thought to be a nervous tremble. 

When Jaime had taken her maidenhead, he’d also strengthened her claim to Tarth. With wedlock came the promise of children. Would the prospect provide her lord father respite? Would he be grateful any sort of man would care to spill his seed between her burly thighs, even one with the reputation of Kingslayer? Or would Lord Selwyn scorn his only living child for tarnishing his name even more than her wretchedness already had? 

“M’lady?” Podrick woke Brienne from her thoughts, a half-smile upon his kind face. “You’d like me to send the raven?” Once she nodded, the boy left. 

The image of a swollen belly sent a shudder through her. She would be a hideous sight, larger and more cumbersome than she already was. Grotesque. 

Brienne was certain Cersei had glowed while carrying each of Jaime’s children. The queen’s long, lustrous hair had shone, and her green eyes had dazzled. She remembered gowns had hung on the Queen beautifully, and pregnancy would have only added to her splendor. 

_You’re beautiful._ Jaime had whispered the words into the crook of her neck, his breath hot against the bear’s mark. If he had been caught up in his need or had truly meant what he’d said, she didn’t know. But she did not want to know, and it was foolish to think upon the matter now. 

She looked to her reflection and turned to her side. Mirrors had always upset Brienne, and this one proved no different. It didn’t matter how many she faced, she never liked what stared back. How could she bestow a child with that same curse? 

“Wife?” Jaime called as he opened their bedroom door, and she whirled around as if caught at some terrible act. “I wanted to invite you to meet with our generals, but I can see I’ve only disturbed you.” Her cheeks were afire as his eyes skimmed her from boot to straw hair. “Are you all right?” 

Brienne did not want to unload her fears upon him, to sound like some senseless girl with senseless concerns. “No. I mean, yes. I’m fine.” 

“That was unpersuasive. Would you care to try again?” He stepped inside, cautiously closing the door behind him. “The Brienne I’d left in the dining hall hadn’t this much worry upon her brow.” 

“It’s nothing. Notions that will never come to pass.” 

He grinned crudely. “Come now. You were never good at secrets.” Even with overgrown, grey scruff upon his face, Jaime was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Their children could favor his features and have his cheekbones. 

Perhaps a girl would be soft, round-faced, and possess a full head of golden curls. A boy might have his smile and talent for swordplay. Or maybe the girl would have his temper and Brienne’s resolve, repulsed by the gender conventions of society. Jaime would adore a little girl, full of fire. 

Or they could each be horrible. 

Sadistic. 

Mad. 

Brienne forced a smile and pushed her digressions aside. “You want to meet with the men? The Unsullied should be informed of their queen’s arrival.” 

“Now I’m a bit more interested in what is occurring here.” He strolled closer, invading her space and nearly pressing up against her. 

She inhaled sharply without meaning to. Despite her exhaustion and the loving they’d had just in the past day, Brienne again wanted Jaime to bed her. If there were no responsibilities and no upcoming war, she’d do nothing else but explore him as he had explored her. 

“You have that wanton look in your pretty eyes, wife.” His hand came to her cheek, and his thumb grazed her dry lips. “How am I to get anything done with you ogling at me like that?”

“Should I stop?” 

Jaime only shook his head. “I want you, Brienne, but I want your hips the chance to miss mine. Even now, I know you shift with anticipation.”

He was right. The pool in her stomach had returned, and her hips faintly and unconsciously stirred, starved for touch and satisfaction. Brienne tried to ignore it. “Perhaps. But you wanted to speak with the men.” She slipped from his touch, as carefully as she could, and started for the door. “The Dragon Queen will arrive before we expect, I’m sure. The black one is the largest and, I assume, the fastest of her children.” She opened their door and glanced back at him. “Are you coming?” 

+++


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Show canon - What Ramsey did to Sansa.

**Sansa**

When Sansa needed quiet, she would typically hole up in her chambers and sew, clearing her mind and focusing on the simplicity of the task. Hiding away in her room was no longer an option for the space was now a shared one, and she wasn’t much interested in Tyrion finding her.

Having her husband at Winterfell had quickly made everything a bit confusing. He was a great asset, she knew, but Arya might have been right. He couldn’t be trusted with the knowledge of Jon’s parentage, not when his queen sat upon the very throne that would be in question. No, Sansa thought it better to keep Tyrion at arm’s length, distracted with either the taste of wine or of his wife.

She bit her lip, ignoring the heat in her stomach.

Bran’s room was just as peaceful as any, and Old Nan’s rocking chair was just as comfortable. She pushed her needle through the woolen fabric, savoring the gratification of pulling the thread and tying off the knot before she moved onto the next stitch.

“You were very beautiful on your wedding day, Sansa.”

The needle stuck her finger, and she hissed under her breath before bringing the tiny wound to her mouth, the taste of copper slipping over her tongue as she sucked. Her brother’s rigid voice had caught her off guard. She thought he’d been asleep.

“Which do you speak of?” Sansa asked, briefly pulling her finger from the warmth of her tongue. The prick throbbed as a small pool of blood formed.

Bran didn’t turn to look at her as he spoke. “You were fearless and lovely with your hair pulled away from your face.”

A shudder crawled up Sansa’s spine, and she thought she might vomit. “The two which most resemble your description were each unpleasant in their own right.”

“You did what you had to do to survive.” Words she’d spoken resonated with Bran’s voice, frightening her.

“How much have you seen, Bran?”

The boy who barely resembled her younger brother exhaled. “The Three-Eyed Raven has seen everything and nothing.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“Time is a drop of water in a bucket, rippling to its edges. My mother’s kiss upon my forehead could have happened yesterday, could have happened earlier today. I see Lady Catelyn sitting in the chair you sit in now, fashioning a prayer wheel for crippled Brandon Stark.”

Sansa stopped rocking, suddenly all too aware of his strangeness.

“You are lighting the candle in the broken tower for Lady Brienne to see, and I am falling from that same tower, just after I discovered golden siblings rutting upon its stone floor.” Bran’s eyes rolled back into his head, and his bottom lip quaked. “Ramsey cut you shallowly because he only wanted to brand and not seriously damage you.”

“Enough!” she shrieked. Though her heart pounded in its chest and her body trembled, Sansa forced herself to stand, her work tumbling to the floor.

Bran’s brown eyes returned, seeing her for the first time but lacking any remorse, and she comprehended that this being was no longer her little brother. Why he had returned to them this way, she had no idea.

“The Night King comes. The Dragon Queen comes. And both are Jon Snow’s enemies.”

Thunder. A roar. Sansa ran to the window, ripping it open. _The black dread_ , she thought the tales had called the mount belonging to Aegon the Conqueror. This beast could have been Balerion reborn for its size dwarfed the brother Tyrion had ridden into Winterfell.

The dragon touched down in the godswood, roaring again into the grey sky and announcing the arrival of his mother.

They had run out of time.

+++

**Tyrion**

Tyrion wrapped his cloak about his shoulders and slogged with anxious haste through the freshly fallen snow. As Daenerys disembarked Drogon, he bowed and waited. He hadn’t expected her so soon. It had only been three days since he’d written her.

“Rise, Tyrion.” Daenerys ordered, her face pink with cold. She wore a heavy, white fur coat and gloves, the most covered he’d ever seen her on any continent. “Take us to a fire. The temperature is vicious.” Ser Jorah Mormont protectively stepped to her side, much healthier than when last Tyrion saw him. He tried to hide his shiver.

“Queen Daenerys,” Jon Snow called, and Drogon roared again. Even Tyrion had to tremble in response to the animal’s anger and confusion, though he tried to shrug it off. He turned to formally introduce the two sovereigns, but was surprised to see the Stark bastard in black. His hair hung loosely, disheveled and curly, and his cloak much thicker than the one Tyrion had seen before.

“Your Grace, allow me to present you to Jon Snow.”

“Jon Snow,” she drawled and moved to Tyrion’s shoulder, touching him. “I’ve heard much about you.”

“And I you,” he responded. “Your Grace, come inside, eat of our bread and salt, and warm by the fire.”

Sansa suddenly appeared, panting and with face flushed. She inelegantly held her unfastened, violet cape at her chest with a bare hand and looked to Tyrion before giving a shallow curtsey. Though seemingly unnerved and out of sorts, Sansa’s voice did not betray her. “The Starks welcome you to the North, Queen Daenerys.”

Jon Snow stepped forward, offering Daenerys his leather-gloved hand. She glanced at it before placing her own atop his. He then led her into the Keep, and Jorah followed close behind. The three passed Sansa, leaving Tyrion alone with his wife and the dragon.

She stared at him, her pink lips slightly parted, still breathless.

Drogon snarled in Sansa’s direction and flapped his wings, wind blowing her hair and cape up behind her. He then leapt into the sky and shook the godswood beneath them, and though Tyrion did not move, Sansa swiftly ducked. She gazed on, perhaps awestruck, as Daenerys’ favorite child soared away. Once he was out of sight, Sansa tied her cloak and lifted her hood as dread settled upon her creamy brow. Before he could say a word, she spun from him and followed her king.

Something had shifted between them since her brother’s return, and as fearless and poised as his wife had been, Sansa now appeared to find strength in isolating herself and shutting him out. Tyrion was both unsure of what he had done to compel this mistrust and of how he could dispel it.

Inside, Jon Snow asked that Daenerys and her advisors join him for dinner in his solar. A table was quickly set, and Jon sat himself across from Daenerys and between Sansa and Ser Davos. Tyrion sat down across from his wife who politely smiled and poured wine into each of their goblets.

“I know you must be exhausted from your travels,” Jon began.

Tyrion’s queen was quick to interrupt. “Do not presume to know me, Jon Snow.”

“I presume nothing. Even a dragon would grow weary after such a long journey.” He smiled. “I thank you for traveling this far so quickly.”

“You claim one of my children is dead.” She glanced to Tyrion before continuing. “Viserion hasn’t been seen in Westeros since my Hand arrived at Winterfell. How can that be? How can you be so sure he was taken from me?” Daenerys removed her gloves and slammed them upon the table. “How can any say such a thing with no more than a boy’s prophecy?”

“Our brother is a greenseer, Your Grace.” Sansa raised her chin, defiant. “He knows of events he should not.”

“Does he? Such as?”

Sansa lowered her eyes a moment before standing, the chair screeching against the floor as she pushed it from her. “My dead husband had a palate for cruelty and pain, Your Grace.” She began to unlace the dress at her neck.

“Sansa, don’t.” Jon reached for her arm, but she evaded his grasp.

Tyrion’s eyes widened with understanding. “Wife, please.” Their pleading did nothing. She loosened her bodice to reveal pieces of herself Tyrion had ached to know: her pale throat, collarbone, and shoulder. Scars covered her milky skin, some nearly faded and others angry and red. His stomach lurched.

“Bran would not have known of Ramsey Bolton or of his depravity. Your royal Hand barely knows.”

“I am sorry for your travails, Lady Stark. However, evil men do evil deeds, and though –”

“Your Khal called you the Moon of his Life.” Sansa slowly retied her laces. “And he was your Sun and Stars.”

“We didn’t hide our love. The Usurper had sent spies…”

“And you believe my father would have shared this information with his young, ignorant daughter?” Sansa finished her fastenings and brought a chalice to her mouth, drinking deeply. As she licked her lips, she reclaimed her seat. “I apologize for my hostility, Your Grace, but the wall has fallen, leaving us no time. The North needs you – the kingdom needs you, for you and my brother are all who are left to protect it.”

+++


End file.
